Armour Of Her Own Making
by Zsra187
Summary: The Hound smiles, that terrible grin that used to frighten her so much, and Sansa remembers Septa Mordane's words.


**Armour Of Her Own Making**

The Hound has changed, that much she can see. His years spent on the Quiet Isle seem to have gentled his rage – just as she had prayed for, kneeling in the godswood with clasped hands and a heavy heart – but the weeks of living in each other's pockets, of sleeping on the cold ground and eating nothing but hard, black bread have frayed his temper beyond all semblance of civility.

They stop for the night in a shallow cave, as the bitter wind descends. There is not much to eat, only a handful of shrivelled beans and a few strips of dried beef that he procured from a mysterious, travelling peasant they had encountered on the Eastern Road. The man's head had been entirely wrapped in dirty rags, but Sansa had felt his eyes on her anyway, and she'd stepped closer to the Hound. Perhaps he'd heard about her escape? A week ago they'd learned that Petyr Baelish had offered a hundred gold dragons to anyone who could rescue his daughter from the huge, burned brother who'd kidnapped her from her home. At first she had sniffed disdainfully at the amount, but the Hound had laughed at her. 'You'd do better to wipe that sneer of your face, little bird. There's not a lot of men out there who'd say no to a hundred gold dragons.'

The sound of laughter, however harsh and abrasive, has lessened considerably since then. If she'd previously thought that her various inadequacies at travelling rough would endear her to him, she soon finds herself sorely mistaken. Now he growls at her at every available opportunity, mocking her cruelly whenever she trips over a tree root or wrinkles her nose at the dirt in her hair. Even worse, she finds herself humiliated by her sheer hopelessness at everyday, practical tasks that she finds impossible to accomplish. Having always had someone to do it for her, Sansa realises that she has no idea how to saddle a horse. This evening, her pathetic attempt at lighting a fire earns her only an angry glance from her companion. Soon enough, he snatches the flint from her hands and pushes her gently away. 'Stupid girl,' he rasps. 'Winter is likely to be over before you manage it.'

She manages to swallow back a sob before walking to the front of the cave, feeling more pathetic than ever before. As she stares out at the swirling snow, her mind drifts to her sister, wherever she may be. _Arya wouldn't be so useless, _she thinks. _She'd know exactly what to do._

A wave of warmth hits the back of her legs. The Hound has started the fire blazing and she can hear him moving around behind her, murmuring to Stranger and clearing the floor to make a space for her to sleep. She doesn't turn back, but stares out into the wilderness. A flock of birds – crows, perhaps? – caw overhead, flapping their wings earnestly as they try to hold their course in the blizzard. Below her, there's nothing but trees and mountains as far as the eye can see. Sansa daren't ask the Hound where they were headed, or even how long it would take before they reach their destination. _Arya wouldn't mind not knowing. She would probably think this was all just a big adventure._

After her own escape from the Eyrie, Sansa finds herself dwelling more and more upon her sister's fate. _There is nothing I would not give to see her again_. Not just Arya, but Robb, or Bran or Rickon. She would sell her soul to the Stranger himself, even for a glimpse of her half-brother of course, it hadn't always been so. Now the thought of how she used to argue so bitterly with her sister fills her heart with sorrow.

The snow continues to fall. If she closes her eyes, she could almost be back in the north, back at Winterfell with her brothers and sister. She can imagine it now. Robb and Arya would chatter away at dinner, full of laughter with all they had been doing that day. They would bicker and tease each other; a young Bran would look up at them adoringly and their mother and father would smile down upon them. Even Theon Greyjoy, leaning haughtily against the door, would have an amused smirk on his long, dark face, while Sansa sat, feeling left out.

Of course, Sansa didn't _want _to play their silly games; Arya always came back covered in mud, with twigs and muck in her hair, and Sansa couldn't imagine anything _worse _than getting her beautiful dresses dirty. But sometimes she ached to spend more time with her siblings, and just this once, she wished she were able to join in on their conversation.

Arya's loud voice suddenly boomed in the deep recess of her mind. 'Father, you should have seen me today! Jon and I fought Robb and Theon in the Godswood, and I pinned Robb to the ground!' Sansa peaked up at her father, who was looking at Arya with amusement in his kind, crinkly eyes.

'Only because I let you! We have to be gentler with you, because you're a girl.' Robb pointed out.

'No, you didn't. I won fair and square!'

Their babble increased in volume, as Theon then butted in and Arya shouted even louder. Sansa tried to interrupt their conversation, but it proved a difficult endeavour. 'Septa Mordane said today that I can sew the straightest stitches she's ever…' she started, but Arya leaned across her to smack Robb upside the head.

'There, beat that!' she cried, before jumping from her seat as Robb chased her down the table. Sansa felt herself deflate with disappointment, as her family laughed at her younger sister's antics.

She woke up the next morning, resolved in her determination not to let another day pass being left out of their games. She broke her fast, then spent the morning at her lessons, first learning sums, (which made her sigh, for she was _hopeless _at sums) then spending a much more enjoyable hour singing and playing the harp. Arya attended the lessons as usual, but with far less gusto, running straight out in the courtyard the moment Septa Mordane paused for breath.

As Sansa sat sewing, the sound of their laughter called to her; urged her to do something she'd never done before. She wanted so much to be part of their game, to not be left out anymore. Putting down her needle and thread, she slipped from the room and hurried to the armoury. There she managed to find a wooden sword, and even an old bit of padding that the boys used when training with each other. Sansa held it up in distaste. It was a dirty brown, covered with stains, and it smelled something awful. But she was a girl who took pride in her worl, no matter what it was. _If a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well_, her mother would always say. So as much as it pained her, Sansa pulled it on over her head and tied the around her middle. Then clutching the wooden sword and with her heart fluttering away in her chest, she strode out into the courtyard.

They were in the Godswood again. She could hear their shouting as she approached, carefully picking her way over the roots of trees and avoiding the muddy patches of ground where she could. Entering the clearing, she could see that the four of them seemed to be having a good time without her.

'I am Nymeria, Warrior Queen of the Rhoynar!' Arya was hollering. She held a large stick in her hand, and was pointing it to the sky, like a sword thrust into the air after a great victory in battle. 'I have come to conquer your lands, and you shall all bow before me and my husband!' With a cry of fury, she ran to a tree stump and jumped upon it, while Robb and Theon ran around her, brandishing small, wooden swords and yelling themselves hoarse. Jon stood next to her, evidently having been assigned the role of King Mors, Nymeria's Martell husband. Even Bran was there, sitting at the base of the Weirwood tree, for he was still too young to be playing such games.

Sansa felt herself grow ever more cross at the sight of them. They hadn't even _invited _her out to play with them, but why not? She wasn't boring. _Why can't I play? I know the story of Nymeria just as well as Arya does._

'Can I play?' Sansa heard herself cry out. The four of them all turned to look at her, stunned into silence at her sudden apparition. All of a sudden, she felt incredibly foolish standing there. She wished she weren't wearing that awful, smelly padding, for none of them were – not even her sister.

'What are you doing here?' Arya asked.

'I'd like to play,' Sansa replied.

There was a pause. 'No. You'll make us play silly girls games,' Arya said smartly. 'You can play tomorrow.'

But Sansa didn't want to play tomorrow. She didn't want to spend another evening listening to them all talk about their games and adventures, and being the only one who couldn't join in. 'I won't make you play girls games, I promise!' To prove her point, Sansa ran towards them - straight into the slimiest, slipperiest patch of mud.

Down she fell, straight onto her bottom. Thick, oozy mud splattered across her face, absolutely covered her pretty pink dress and Arya shrieked with laughter. 'See, Sansa? I told you, you're just a silly girl.'

Anger overwhelmed her. Quick as a flash, Sansa stood from the mud. Robb made to move towards her, but she pushed him away. Her eyes were swimming with tears as she ran towards her sister, and pushed her roughly off the stump on which she stood. 'Shut up, Arya! If I'm a silly girl, then you're a silly girl too!' She stood for a moment, triumphant at the look of hurt on her sister's face, then summoned all the strength she could muster,

'I hate you!' she cried, before the tears overflowed. Then turning on her heels, she ran from the woods as fast as she could.

Septa Mordane caught her in the courtyard before she could find her lady mother. 'Sansa! Whatever is the matter?'

Somehow she managed to make sense of Sansa's garbled explanation, before steering her gently into her the Great Keep. It was there that Sansa told her – in between great, heaving sobs - of what had happened in the Godswood. Sansa considered it a mark of just how upset she must have been, for Septa Mordane eventually pulled her into her lap and hugged her as only a mother could hug a child.

'Hush, hush,' she murmured soothingly as she stroked Sansa's hair. 'You mustn't let your sister upset you, child.'

'I only wanted to play with them! I hate being left out all the time, but I fell over and Arya laughed at me.' Sansa's little voice trembled with the effort of keeping more tears at bay. 'She called me a silly girl.'

'Well she's wrong. There's nothing silly about being a girl,' Septa Mordane corrected her. 'As a matter of fact, sometimes it takes more strength to be a girl than it does to be a boy.'

Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion. _How could it possibly take more strength to be a girl than a boy? _'How can that be? I'll never fight in wars, like Robb or Jon. I'll never have to be Lord of Winterfell.' _I'll only have to marry my husband, and be mistress of his house and give him lots of babies_, she thought. That was something she was very much looking forward too.

But Septa Mordane gave a little sigh. 'Men can do as they wish, Sansa. They so rarely find themselves constrained by the same rules as women.'

'What rules?'

'Rules that your sister finds the need to break more often than not,' the older woman replied with in a disapproving voice. 'That does not excuse her behaviour, but neither does it excuse yours.'

'But I didn't do anything wrong!' Despite the tears, Sansa managed to affect a particularly affronted tone.

'You pushed her, did you not? And worse, you told Arya one of the harshest untruths one sister can say to another.'

Sansa felt the hot flush of shame creep across her cheeks. 'I didn't mean it. I don't really hate her. I was just upset.'

'I know that, child. But it is always when we are upset that we must be most courteous to others.'

'But why?'

There was a pause, while Sansa curled herself deeper into Septa Mordane's lap. 'Courtesy is a lady's armour, Sansa. Just like your father wears a shield and armour to battle, a lady must use her own gifts to protect herself, and others.'

Sansa frowned in puzzlement. She could sew and embroider, sing and play the high harp, and even recite the history of Westeros back to the time of Brandon the Builder, but somehow, she didn't think that was what Septa Mordane meant. 'But I don't have any gifts.'

'You have a kind and gentle heart. Your good nature will prove to others that they cannot seek to get the better of you, however much they try.'

The older woman's gentle voice suddenly took on an intensity that Sansa had rarely heard before. 'Sometimes you may feel scared, or upset, or humiliated, just like today. But when these moments come, you must _always_ act with courtesy and kindness. When you do, even the fiercest spirits become tractable.'

'Like Arya?'

'Yes,' she replied. 'Like Arya. But your sister will settle herself down sooner or later.'

'Arya will never settle down,' Sansa corrected her. 'She says she never get married or have babies, but just stay in breeches all the time until she's old enough to join the Night's Watch, even though I _told_ her the Night's Watch only takes men.'

Septa Mordane frowned disapprovingly, then gave another sigh. 'Well, I suppose it's best if we just humour her for a while. At least until she's older.'

They sat there for a while, until Sansa felt her Septa shift underneath her. 'Come now, Sansa. Let's take off this padding, it'll be time for supper soon.'

Sansa turned her big blue eyes upwards. What if they laugh at me again tomorrow?' she whispered.

'They won't.' Septa Mordane's hand reached down, and took hold of her small one. 'But if they do, do not let it upset you. Act with courtesy, Sansa. That is the mark of a true lady.'

Sansa felt her spirit lighten at her Septa's words. _I can do that. I'll be just like my lady mother. _'I can be a true lady,' she smiled.

'I have no doubt of that, my dear.'

That evening, Sansa was sitting alone in her bedroom when there was a knock on the door. It was Arya, her clothes and hands still dirty from where Sansa had pushed her off the stump.

'One of Mikken's dogs has just whelped a litter. He says that if we go down there, he'll let us hold one of the puppies.' She lingered awkwardly in the doorway, but held her hand out to Sansa. 'Do you want to come?'

Right at that moment, Sansa felt a rush of love for her sister. 'Yes, I'd like that very much.' She crossed to the door. 'Thank you, Arya,' she said warmly, then leant down and kissed her sister's grimy cheek. They left for the smithy hand in hand.

'Are you trying to freeze to death, little bird?'

The Hound's voice intrudes upon her thoughts, pulls her out of her reminiscence as she stands at the edge of the cave, just a foot away from the perilous drop to the ground. 'No,' she replies. 'I was just… admiring the view.'

He barks a laugh at her, as rough as a saw upon stone. _That hasn't changed, at least._

'Shame,' he rasps. 'This might go easier on both of us if you threw yourself off.'

She turns back to the fire and sits across from him. 'I would do so gladly Ser, if I thought it might ease your troubles.' _But I doubt it._

The Hound smiles, that terrible grin that used to frighten her so much, and Sansa remembers Septa Mordane's words. _With courtesy and kindness, even the fiercest spirits become tractable_.

Sansa smiles back at him and straightens her spine. _Arya can keep her needle_, she decides. _I have armour of my own_.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading. Reviews are _greatly_ appreciated!


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